


Im Westen nichts Neues

by lunicole



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 19th Century, 20th Century, Franco-Prussian War, German unification, Historical, Italian Unification, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:50:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunicole/pseuds/lunicole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Quelle performance, mon cher !” France says, earning himself a dark, yet desperate look from Prussia as he walks towards him, a grin still on his face.<br/>“Va te faire foutre,” Prussia answers simply, and he sounds tired, tired, tired of the West and the East and the trenches and rationing, uprising and death.</p><p>Bismarck is dead and so are the men who once sang the Internationale in the streets of Paris. Still, the taste of it all had lingered in his throat, for decades, even up until now, even as he watches Prussia fall on his knees, a sigh coming out of his mouth. There’s something striking about the look of him, the sunken eyes and the still impeccable uniform. It’s beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Versailles

**Author's Note:**

> @AsphierYang translated this story in Chinese! You can find it here: http://asphier.lofter.com/post/1d3dc686_124a2fe1

_Versailles, 1919_  
  
Versailles is pretty, because Versailles is always pretty, with the sun that shines over the gardens, and summer making Paris nearly as insufferable as during the winter. The relic of a past long gone feels weird to walk in, sometimes, but time has gone by, now. The air feels fresher than it does in the capital, the gardens neatly taken care of as they always were, in a way.  
  
This is a good day. It makes France smile, because victories always make France smile, even though he knows, he knows that things like that are never over, that wars, no matter how big, no matter how bone-crushing awful they are, never really do end all wars.  
  
They’ll call it the Great War. The last time anyone called a war Great, France was still full of illusions, of ideas about freedom and republics and peace, ideas that would come crashing down in the snows of Russia, and in the ballrooms of Vienna. How some things never change, in a way... But those days are gone, and France, stripped of his delusions, wins, now.  
  
It shouldn’t come of as a surprise to hear Prussia and Germany yelling at each other in the Hall of Mirrors, or to feel himself smile in amusement as he lights a cigarette and leans against the wall, listening to the rather angry German through the closed door.  
  
He’s really won, now. Four years of shit and trenches and boots that never seem to ever get dry, of killing and dying and killing and dying, bombshells raining from the sky and hating, hating, hating. Four years of pointless war, millions of men dead for scraps of barren, god-forsaken lands in Alsace-Lorraine. France has won. France has won even though there’s bile in the back of his throat whenever he thinks about whatever it was that brought him back to Paris.  
  
“ _Es ist deine Schuld! Du hast das Vaterland verlassen!_ ”  
  
Germany storms out of without even realising France is there, and Prussia doesn’t follow him, still yelling, shouting at him things France doesn’t understand. Germany doesn’t pay any attention to it. He’s already out, his uniform loose over his shoulder and anger radiating from his skin.  
  
France knows it’s stupid to piss Prussia off, even when he’s on his knees, but he can’t help it, and he’s won, won at last. He straightens himself up a little bit, throws his cigarette on the ground, and start clapping, making his way towards the now-open door. It’s only then that Prussia realises that he’s there, and his hands curl into fists in his hands.  
  
“ _Quelle performance, mon cher !_ ” France says, earning himself a dark, yet desperate look from Prussia as he walks towards him, a grin still on his face.  
“ _Va te faire foutre_ ,” Prussia answers simply, and he sounds tired, tired, tired of the West and the East and the trenches and rationing, uprising and death.  
  
Truth to be told, they’re all tired, all sick, even though France hates to admit it to himself, sometimes. He wants to be strong. He wants to sign peaces that will have Prussia, Prussia the pretentious, Prussia that made him a fool, half a century ago, boil in shame and self-hatred the way he had done, in this very room, as they toasted to wars, to nations, to victory and to Germany.  
  
Bismarck is dead and so are the men who once sang the Internationale in the streets of Paris. Still, the taste of it all had lingered in his throat, for decades, even up until now, even as he watches Prussia fall on his knees, a sigh coming out of his mouth. There’s something striking about the look of him, the sunken eyes and the still impeccable uniform. It’s beautiful.  
  
“Is this what you wanted, France? Having me like that? Would you like me to suck your cock for good measure, making you feel like you’ve somehow won this war even though we both know it isn’t really the case?”  
  
There’s venom in his mouth as he speaks, and Prussia is burning with rage, of course he is. France’s smile does falter a bit, because it isn’t all false, not really, that he wouldn’t have won this war had it not been of that last year, had it not been because of the new rising empire that had taken all of them by surprise.  
  
Backwards countries in backwards continents taking over the world, bits by bits. It shouldn’t piss off France nearly as much as it does.  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re nowhere near as good at it as you’d like to think. Besides, I’ve got treaties to sign with Austria too, and we both know what signing treaties with Austria means.”  
  
Prussia gives him a look, but he doesn’t rise from his position, not yet.  
  
“Worthless bitch. Of course he’s tried every trick in the book on you.”  
“ _Oh, les gros mots…_  You’re talking from experience, I believe?”  
  
Prussia doesn’t answer that one, another sigh coming out of him, more regrets about bad decisions, about Germany being an idiot, about getting drunk on power and his own pride. France looks down at him, crouches to his level, his hand briefly caressing his hair. He knows he’s being cruel, but he doesn’t care.  
  
“You were fooled, weren’t you? Because even though you hate to admit it to yourself, you wanted him, and after all these years, you finally had him lose to you, properly, almost willingly.”  
“Shut up.”  
“And now you know that you’re no better than Spain or Hungary or me. That Austria is a toxic flower and that this war, that he has started, has destroyed you, your empire and the brother you loved so much.”  
  
It’s bad to kick people when they’re down, but France has stopped trying to be good in the battlefields of Valmy, Eylau, Waterloo and Sedan. He’s learnt that from Prussia, or so he likes to think, and there is a vicious pleasure to be taken out of seeing his enemy break like this, power slipping away from his fingers like water. France doesn’t have anything more to say, anything about the so-called clash of the civilisations, about royalties and republics, about the trenches of Belgium. It’s nowhere near as personal as what he’s just said is.  
  
It take a moment for Prussia to answer, as he’s still on his knees, still defeated, that Bavaria, Saxony, Westphalia, Germany, they all still hate him, for everything. Maybe it’s something inevitable, in a way, something that happens to all of those that fly too close to the sun. France knows this, intimately, but it doesn’t keep him from wanting Prussia to burn, more than now, more than he has ever burnt, for the humiliation of 1870.  
  
“I will crush you,” he says at France turned back. There’s a bit, a tiny little bit of desperation in his voice. “I will crush you and I will dance on your corpse just as I did the last time around.”  
  
But France isn’t listening. He’d heading out, in the sunlight, towards the gardens of Versailles, towards his own victory, even though there’s an ache in the back of his throat that won’t go, even though the past four years’ hell of mud and sweat and putrefaction still sticks to the back of his eyelids whenever he closes his eyes.  
_  
*_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Es ist deine Schuld! Du hast das Vaterland verlassen! = It’s your fault! You’ve betrayed the Fatherland!  
> Quelle performance, mon cher ! = What a performance, my dear!  
> Va te faire foutre = Go fuck yourself  
> Oh, les gros mots… = Oh, the bad words...


	2. Vienna

_Vienna, 1815_  
  
"You shouldn't be here," Austria says, and he's right. France shouldn't be here, he should be in Belgium, he should be winning back his empire, his wonderful empire of self-crowned generals and republican ideals.  
  
France doesn't answer anything to that. He's dressed in the most modern fashion, dressed to kill, in a way, but he knows that it's useless. Forty years of war, between him and Austria, forty years, like in the old days, when Holy Rome still meant something, maybe, when France still believed in monarchs and divine rulers. Oh, the memories of the old Hapsburgs, of their unflinching will to take over the world, and how France had enjoyed destroying it, bit by bit, turning it to dust.  
  
Austria misses it, misses Spain, maybe. It's the longing look that comes to his face whenever he looks West. France feels generous enough to spare him the details of the fall of Madrid. It’s, as he likes to tell himself,  _de bon goût_.  
  
"What exactly do you think will come out out of your presence here?"  
"I'm here to apologise."  
  
He smiles, softly, because he isn't, he really isn't. Austria knows it, and his anger flares up at the unsaid mention of dead princesses and foreign armies pouring inside his lands, beating him in Poland, beating him in Germany, flags dropping in front of an uncouth, bloated little general in the gardens of Schönbrunn. It's a discrete thing, Austria's anger, making his usually placid face take a thin shade of disgust.  
  
There's a sigh, as Austria looks out the window, over the city that comes alive at night, the dancing of diplomacy that is twirling around itself within the walls of the Hofburg. He's weary. He's weary of the arms, of the fire, of Enlightenment taking the shape of blood and death. He's taken France for a private chat in his study because music, wonderful music, is making him dizzy again. Austria has never been very good with finances, just like France, but he's too old to change his ways now. The Congress is expensive, just as the wars had been, and they all celebrate what they think will be a new era of peace, even though France knows things are never that simple, not with humans, not with  _ideas_.  
  
"I'm not the one you should be apologising to."  
  
Austria looks at his nails, very briefly, before turning back to France with a carefully neutral expression.  
  
"We both know things have changed forever, now that the East has come alive once more,” he says, resigned. “You'll never get out of this mess if you don't learn how to deal with him after all of this."  
"Russia doesn't care nearly as much as you do when it comes to saying sorry."  
  
Austria's expression doesn't waver as it should, unlike in Austerlitz, unlike in Valmy. He's still as serious, still as intent, his hands unfolding from their resting position in front of him.  
  
"I'm not talking about Russia."  
  
France frowns, for a moment, then laughs. Prussia? Prussia is blip, Prussia is a passing fad over the course of Europe. Prussia is young, too young, younger than England and even Russia, and he's too brash, too headstrong, too passionate to last more than a few centuries. He’s won war, but he lost too, in Wagram, angry shouts towards the sky, toward anything, everything, Poland, Napoleon, France, and God.  
  
France laughs, and Austria looks at him as he does.   
  
“Do you think this is a game, France?”  
  
There are still snickers in the corners of France’s mouth. It’s the irony of it all, maybe, the way the world is still dancing, the way Austria schemes, as always, hidden behind the proper air and the mole that seems to caress his lips sometimes, when he speaks a tiny bit too fast, when the ghosts of a past long gone come back to stab him in the throat.  
  
“It isn’t? Please, the masquerade you’ve put up, with the ballrooms and the music and the cakes, is simply one of your ridiculous attempts to make yourself feel important. The others might believe you, for whatever you’re trying to do here, but I don’t.”  
  
There’s nothing to say to that.  
  
Austria's face takes the hardness of stone. Maybe it's because of Hungary, France can't help but to think, maybe because she's seen whatever happened to Poland in an unforeseen twist of faith. Maybe it's because of his own wounded pride, his empire, the only one that really did matter, losing his name forever.  
  
Neither Holy, Roman, nor an Empire. France had made the Middle Ages end at last, and he didn't feel like apologising, not now, not ever, even as they talked and schemed, choosing his role in a new and old Europe.  
  
"You're a fool if you believe this is the end of your troubles."   
  
Austria's voice is firm, unwavering, so desperately trying to be strong.   
  
"You don't know just yet what you've done to the delicate balance of Europe."  
  
They're both old, way too old for their own good. Empires come and fall, as always, and it's ridiculous not to be aware of their own mortality, of everyone inevitable death. Still, they keep believing. That's what makes them still feel alive.  
  
"Oh, but I know perfectly well what I've done," France smiles. "I've made it enter into modernity. No one, not you, not England, not Spain, has done such a thing ever since Rome's fall, no one."  
  
There's hint of that old madness, the one that painted the streets of Paris in blood in what sometimes felt like another life. France catches it in his breath, and it makes him stop himself, for a very brief instant. Austria catches it, too, silently, violent eyes averted, breath careful and calculated. France sighs.  
  
"I've lost this war, but you and I both know that, no matter how hard you and your dearest friends Russia and Prussia try, but this is only the beginning."  
  
Austria doesn't have anything to say to that, of course he doesn't, and he simply turns away, heading for the door. Wounded catholic pride. France should know about it, of course he should, but God had felt like such a foreign thing, for a few short years.  
  
"I tried to warn you. It seems like there isn't anything more I can do.”   
  
There’s a very brief pause, breathing.   
  
“Enjoy your stay in Vienna."  
  
A final sigh crosses his lips, and Austria gives him a look that shouldn’t feel so piercing. It’s like he could understand what it felt, to hold the power within your hands to change the course of history forever, to die and die and die countless times for it. But Austria doesn’t know, he only knows the halls of the Hofburg, the battlefields observed from afar and, maybe, the taste of the wine of Southern Spain that crossed his lips, centuries ago.  
  
“I will,” France says, Austria already gone. “I will.”  
  
*


	3. Sebastopol

_Sebastopol, 1856_  
  
France tries to tell himself, sometimes, that this isn't exactly like waging a war in Russia, that he's not actually making the same mistakes as before. Crimea is pretty, in a way, prettier than a burning Moscow, prettier than an endless wasteland of frozen tundra. It smells of the sea, of a tongue that France isn't sure is foreign or not.  
  
Turkey. Sick old man, a bit like France himself feels, sometimes. He tries not to think too much about it, not now, not yet.  
  
Crimea and the Black Sea aren't freezing as the Russian mainland and the Berezina, they’re warm and sunny, smelling of dry sand and disease, but still France can't help but to feel cold, sometimes, when England looks at him with still, still, a few old grudges gnawing inside his chest. It's ridiculous, to be fighting together, now, after almost a century of pent up anger and resentment, about continents, seas, and the mud of Northern Belgium.  
  
They're sitting in the sand, sunkissed skin, looking at the sea. It's a shit war, with shit tobacco, like Russia smelt of the last time around the both of them came here. England looks pensive, his hair messy as always, and he closes his eyes, briefly, before speaking.  
  
"What a piece of shit country." comes out of his mouth, as he takes out the knife from his pocket and observes it briefly, before planting in one swift movement in the ground.   
  
England is old, but he's not as old as France, and he probably doesn't remember Jerusalem and the sands of Syria the same way France does. It feels a bit like those times, in a way, except neither England or France actively care about God anymore, at least not about a God that isn't made of steam-powered machines and the dances of politics Europe had turned into ever since 1815. It's the weather, probably, the smell of the sea. Old wars in odd places, never really leaving France's memory, the same way Waterloo probably never would.  
  
"Don't say that in front of our host," he ousts England, even though Turkey isn't there, never is there, too busy with his own problems already. "He might take it personally."  
  
"I don't care about what he might think, France. Everyone’s sick and no one is dying heroically defending a piece of shit land we only care about because Russia wants it. Also, why the fuck is Italy pretending to be fighting on our side?”   
  
There’s nothing to say to that, not really. England sighs, and he lets his head fall back on the sand, dirt in his already messy hair.   
  
“What the fuck are we even doing here..."   
  
France shrugs. He never really does know what he's doing in Russia, be it negotiating peace with elusive Czars or dragging an army of corpses across the frozen, scorched earth, stripped of whatever had been there before.  
  
This is not as bad as 1812, nothing will ever be as bad as 1812, the humiliation, the frozen toes falling from young men's feet.   
  
"It was your idea," France observes dryly.  
  
England groans, still not moving.  
  
Their uniforms are dirty, from the mud and the fighting. It's an odd kind of war, this time around, because of the telegraph lines and the machine guns, boats going faster and faster, Gibraltar, Malta and the same smell of the Mediterranean’s water. It's not the same as it was before, as in the warm, deathly nights of Madrid, as in the forests of Aragon and the burnt villages of the Spanish countryside. It's not the same as Belgium, all those years ago, Grouchy and Blücher, Empires tripping over themselves over the course of hundreds of days.  
  
There are no words about whatever happened between Russia, Austria and Prussia, no words on the fact that they all know this is a turning point in the course of this great, grand century of guns and steel. No peace, not anymore, for Europe and for its Congress of years past. England hadn't said a word about France's new emperor, so unlike the one he'd shipped away on a rock in the middle of the Atlantic to die alone. France hadn't said a word about England's rule over Canada and whatever had happened to France's ghosts of kings long gone there.  
  
Springs and nations and emperors and execution squads. France can't stop himself before he starts talking, and he's not sure if he really does regret it.  
  
"Is it because you miss it that we're here? Miss those twenty years of war, twenty years of me and you hating each other so much, so much..."  
  
England rises back up. His face is a carefully neutral mask, now, but he's never been good at hiding his feelings, not to France anyway. France can't help but to want to push him over the edge, and yet he keeps himself from doing so, not now, not yet.  
  
"I don't miss your ridiculous attempts at emperorship. They're not over anyway, aren't they?" he says, and it is a low blow that France was indeed asking for. "I miss not having to deal with your dearest friends Austria, Prussia and Russia here in the East."  
  
The mention of an alliance that is, once again, far from being holy, or even an alliance, makes France sigh amusedly. Austria had always had a certain taste for the ridiculous, or so it seems. He leans on England's shoulder, uninvitedly so, and it makes his ally of circumstances tense visibly. Prudish victorian morals. Prudish and mean little rainy island cut from the continent, never quite satisfied with whatever it managed to get its hands on.  
  
" _My_  dearest friends? You liked dealing with Prussia, England, don't lie to yourself like this," France coos, his hand snaking on England's thigh. "You know, he told me that you and him had quite the celebratory fuck when I was busy licking my wounds back in Vienna, even though he did end up screwing you, figuratively speaking, after the fact."  
  
Another annoyed groan escapes Englands lips as he pushes away France's hand. France likes to blame recent moral shifts, but really, there's something almost religious about England's self-repression.  
  
"You're an idiot to believe whatever Prussia says."  
"True," France concedes.  
  
They stay like this, for a moment, not really moving, France's head comfortably nested against his neck, to England's obvious displeasure. Still, no move to chase him this time comes, and France can only be left to his own thoughts, to the past that never really lets go of old, weary men like him and Turkey. Prussia and England, back in the old days, back in the days of despots and enlightenment, fighting one in the worthless snows of Canada, the other all over the battlefields of Europe. Prussia and England back when it was France, and France only, who truly ruled Europe as an absolute tyrant.  
  
The way this century is turning into something France isn't sure he fully understands scares him. He caused this, he knows he did, and yet there's something terrifying about the unknown, about whatever happened to the game he used to be so good at playing at.  
  
He has to rise back up, and change his mind, he must. There's something uncomfortable about remembering the past, here of all places. France gets up on his feet, and he pats away the dust on his coat before giving England's hair a quick tussling that never fails to make his annoyance flare up.  
  
"I've got a few things to take care of, I fear. Sorry to interrupt our sentimental bonding moment. Surely you know where to find me if you need help getting sand out of those ridiculous machines of war they insist on using here?"  
  
England observes him, and for a brief moment, France fears that  _he knows_.   
  
“Try not to trip on your own ego and die on the way.”  
  
There's a nod, though, quick. France laughs at the insult, a salways, but it doesn't make him feel any better as he walks back to the camp, hands in his pockets.  
  
New games and new rules, just as Austria had predicted. This war will be over soon, France tells himself, and he hopes that this isn't the start of something terrible. Somehow, he doubts it, whenever he thinks about whatever Italy is doing here, or how circumstances have come to make him side with England, this time around.  
  
*


	4. Frankfurt

_Frankfurt, 1848_  
  
There’s always something quite dramatic about Austria rushing to get somewhere in time, because Austria is a fool, and there’s nothing more dear to him than keeping others waiting. That’s what comes to Prussia’s mind, as he looks at the hurried steps of the caped figure slipping out of the horse-drawn carriage from the window, unmistakable hands gestures and all the dignity of millennial dynasties in the way he holds his head.  
  
Odd century, ever since Vienna of the Congress, and the ballrooms and the dancing and cutting Poland into pieces once more. Prussia still remembers the Wagrams of days past, and Berlin occupied, inflated egos for little Corsican generals walking over Frederick,  _liebe Friederich_ , dead for so many years now. Prussia knows he cares too much about humans, in a way, and he wishes he had gotten himself to kill France's beloved emperor himself. Sometimes, sometimes, history has to be written in blood, and Prussia has never shied away from getting his hands dirty. They’ve let him stay here in Frankfurt, even though they don’t really want him there, not as much as they want Austria to finally show himself among the storm.  
  
Still, the room they’ve got him is nice, elegantly furnished, almost as if they’re expecting something out of him. The Germans, sadly enough, aren’t as skillful as the French when it comes to diplomacy, or so it seems. Prussia knows for a thing that he won’t be giving them anything for free, not anymore.   
  
There is no knock on the door from Austria as he steps into the room, heavy breathing from the run to get there that Austria desperately tries to hide. Old man with old, weary bones, and none of the vigour Prussia wants to give to whatever they want to make out of this thing they don't dare to call a new Holy Rome.  
  
" _Sie sind ein bisschen spät._ "  
  
Prussia lets out an ugly laugh, and Austria doesn't say anything to that. He doesn't need to talk about whatever happened to Hungary and to the streets of Vienna. Prussia hopes Russia got the chance to fuck his mouth for the deal, but Prussia knows for a thing that Russia isn't the same as they rest of them are.  
  
" _Ich weiß_ ," Austria answers coldly.  
  
It's like a dance, almost, in a way, how they circle each other without touching every time they meet. It's like the wars, all the wars before that, when Prussia was nothing and Austria and Spain and France were everything.   
  
Austria takes off his coat. There's still rain on it, and it drips on the floor as he carelessly throws it over a chair and approaches Prussia. They both know why he's here and not in Saxony's or  _fucking Bavaria_ 's rooms, why he didn't bring a weapon and why Prussia isn't chasing him away just yet.  
  
"How's Hungary?" Prussia can't help but to ask, his teeth sharp and biting, because there's something weary about Austria, something personal about the things that they both know he'll have to let go of if he wants to keep his head out of the water now.  
  
The price Prussia would pay to watch him drown...  
  
"Defeated," is Austria's answer.  
  
Austria's voice is the same as ever, soft southern accent and controlled tone, and it makes Prussia wish he could break it. They’ve been talking a lot about that, about the state of that monarchy over the Danube, about the revolutions, the people marching in the streets of Berlin, Munich, Vienna, Paris.  
  
Somehow, it’s always about Paris, about France’s ideas that refused to die even after forty years of bloody war. France seemingly hasn’t had enough, of spreading these things like a disease, and he’s still paying the price for it, as always, changing kings, changing back into republics, back into the monster they’ve put down. Prussia shakes his head, and the grin is still on, even though it isn’t as convinced as it should be.   
  
"You do know that it one day begging Russia for help won’t be enough.”  
“I know that one day all your soldiers and your pride won’t be enough either,  _Prussian_.”  
  
The tone is cutting, and as Austria lets himself comfortably fall on one of the chairs not too far from the desk, still observing Prussia like if he could see right through him. It pisses him off, but once again, almost everything about Austria ever does.  
  
Prussia knows it's a dumb move to get closer, to tower over Austria's sitting form, his hands in the pockets of his trousers and the same very much amused look upon his face. Austria is a venomous spider, and he kills everything that gets too close to him, always, and Prussia knows he will kill himself if he stays there, just like Spain did, all those years ago.  
  
Spain. Whatever happened to him in the last few centuries of decadence is no business of Prussia, or at least that's what he tells himself on most days.  
  
Austria's face doesn't change, still as infuriating as ever, still making Prussia want, wish, need to grab that dainty lilly-white neck and push him to acknowledge him, acknowledge his power, and bow and break. The violet eyes are the same. The soft lips too, and the infinite detachment that only ever comes to those who've lived long enough to stop caring about whatever happened to men and their ephemeral lives.  
  
"Neither you or I want any of this," Prussia says slowly, and he's right, they don't want anything that has to do with France's great ideas and the boy that still lays dead between the two of them. "Even though you hate to admit it to yourself, you need me to do this for you, to keep the past dead."  
  
Violet eyes glint, very briefly. Ghosts of battlefields past, and France, always, fucking up this century for the rest of them, fucking up the course of history as always.  
  
"Do you miss him, Austria?"  
  
There's no answer to this, quiet breathing. Prussia's grin grows cruel.  
  
"You're the one who signed his death. You know, I thought you hated him, in a way, but in fact it's quite the opposite. You never forgave him for betraying you."  
  
Something changes.  
  
"You have no idea of what you're talking about."  
  
It's the controlled voice, now, the one with the slight vibrato, the anger concealed, and Prussia knows he's found the crack in Austria's armor of soft sighs and delicate words, feigned sentimentality and a taste for revenge best served scalding hot. This is what Prussia wants. He wants the fury, and the rage, the unmistakable madness of kings and emperors. It's a stupid idea to push Austria to his limits, but Prussia doesn't care, not anymore.  
  
His finger traces the side of Austria's face, briefly, but it doesn't last. Soon enough, there are fingers circling his wrist with the hardness of steel. Calluses, too, from the violin and the piano, and the repeated measured yet unforgiving blows with a wooden stick on Bohemia's fingers for misbehaving.  
  
"Say another word, and I'll show you how exactly I treat people who've failed me."  
"I'm not Hungary. Or perhaps you would like me to be?"  
  
Prussia crackles, once more, and there's a sharp slap that comes to his face, powerful enough to make him fall back . He doesn't have to time to properly register whatever is happening, not really, as he hears Austria leaving, coat over his shoulder, seething rage dripping from his every pores.   
  
Austria’s mad. He's mad with grief and guilt, because Austria only ever gets mad over long lost symbols of eras long gone. He's mad and he's going to rise hell and heaven to destroy Prussia with words they both know Austria has always been infinitely more skillful with, one day, maybe, when he will get the chance to. Austria is like a venomous spider, and he’s patient, too, playing this game of war and peace with the skill of a brilliant composer. How exciting.  
  
The next day, the rest of whatever is assembled here will learn that Austria has left, and they'll panic. Prussia can wait and see. He's got this under control. There's no rush to be had, and he can feel it in his chest, that tingling feeling of change, the unavoidable course of history setting him and Austria upon a collision course right here in the middle of Europe.  
  
He knows he can thank France for that.  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sie sind ein bisschen spät. = You are a little bit late.  
> Ich weiß = I know.


	5. Solferino

_Solferino, 1859_  
  
Italy looks tired. It’s the war, maybe, even though it’s not really Italy’s war, as every single one of Italy’s wars always are. France wonders briefly if it might not be regret, a little bit, and guilt he can see in his eyes. Italy's old, but he's still young, still caring about rights and wrongs in the grand scheme of the thousand lives they live. Maybe it's because of Italy's always been creature of pen and words and songs, unlike France, unlike the rest of them who rose from oblivion on the tip of a sword and bent to the whims of the ever-changing art of war and peace.  
  
France isn't sure if that makes Italy the lucky or unlucky one. What he is sure about, though, is that Austria is crumbling on himself and that he takes an almost sadistic pleasure in seeing him fall after centuries of wars and peace, marriages and bitter murders. It seems like proper payback, in a way, after Vienna, and its large ballrooms full of lies and music.  
  
The Italian countryside hasn't changed, even after half a century of rebellions turning into revolutions under the unstoppable wheel of time. It's pretty, and the sky never fails to paint itself red under the throes of war. It's been a long time since France has killed so many, so quickly, and it all feels like a bad replay of whatever happened in a time he doesn't want to think about. Maybe that's the reason why Italy doesn't look as happy about their victory as he should.  
  
Italy's sitting against one of the walls that somehow managed to survive the battle, his eyes closed, when France finally finds him. He looks tired in a way cuts through bone, makes marrow rot, tired like France was all those years ago. Italy only smiles briefly as he sees France coming towards his direction and sitting next to him. He’s not nearly as stupid enough not to know that France’s new Emperor, so similar yet so different from the previous one, wants the same things as all men want.  
  
“The Austrians have retreated,” France says flatly, and he doesn’t dare putting his hand over Italy’s shoulder just yet. There’s something subtly broken about Italy’s face, almost as if the horrors of war weren’t usual business for their kind. Maybe it’s because Italy isn’t one of their kind, in his own special way. Maybe it’s because of unfinished business between France and him that are better left unsaid now. “We’ve won.”  
  
“I know,” Italy says, and there’s the singing tone still lingering in his tone even though he looks positively morbid. He laughs, dryly. “ _Victoire à la Pyrrhus._ ”  
  
Italy’s not wrong, and so France doesn’t have anything to say to that, anything that isn’t stupid and about whatever happened decades ago that he knows will upset his ally. He hasn’t yet fought a war since Vienna, and it still feels weird, in a way. He tries not to think too much about it, or about whatever shines hardly in the corners of Italy’s eyes.  
  
They look at the destroyed town, or whatever was this place before it turned to dust. It's like Crimea but it's not like Crimea, it's bigger, bloodier, the wonders of industry clashing against one another and earning their death salary on the way. France isn't sure anymore if he likes of hates the novel sound of machine gun, and the sight of soldiers still a little bit, a little bit too young falling under the rapid-fire bullets.  
  
"I didn't think things would be so hard," Italy admits with an empty look in his eyes. "It was a bit naive of me, I feel."  
  
France wonders briefly if Italy really means what he's saying, as if he'd forgotten the wars, France fighting England and himself, England for one hundred years of mud and blood in Crecy, Agincourt and Calais, ugly warring and medieval killing. One hundred years that had made him march through the Alps, cut his way to Naples like one would cut theought butter, bring the Holy See to its knees and laugh, laugh, laugh in delight of his own glory. One hundred years of shit for that, and blood and virgins burnt to death as witches.  
  
 _Jeanne_. How sad it is not to feel anything about her anymore, nothing more than a dull, phantom ache and the strange impression that things might have been different.  
  
Strength, for their kind, is a greedy mistress. They all have to lose something in the process of truly becoming whole. Maybe it's Italy's turn to lose one of the things that matters the most to him. Maybe it's time for him to truly lose whatever made him different from the rest of them now.  
  
France inspects his fingernails for a brief instant, still caked in mud even after the rigorous scrub he gave them after the battle.  
  
"Those kinds of thing are never easy, I'm afraid."  
  
Italy has another of those brief, sad empty laughs.  
  
"It seems like I'll have to toughen up, won't I?"  
  
France's commiserating smile is large, but it isn't genuine. It's a bit like everything that ever comes out from Austria's mouth, Austria's emperors, relics of an old past desperately clinging to whatever happened to the middle ages over those few centuries of modernity.   
  
Italy sees it, desperately tries not to let it go to his face, even though there's that ugly hint of anger that twists, very briefly, the corner of his mouth. France is being nice not to mention Sicilly and whatever will happen to him in the grand scheme of things Italy is acutely aware will unfold, in time.  
  
There's a headshake, as if to chase unpleasant implications of his own words.  
  
"I've talked to Prussia," Italy says. "He's different, you know. He's changed."  
  
Italy sighs softly, and he traces a line on the ground with a pensive look on his face as he speaks. It's almost as if the vowels are slipping away from his tongue too fast, as if he can't help but to be saying things that have been too long left to silence.  
  
France tries not to let his displeasure show, not yet, not now.  
  
There's something in Italy's voice that has a hint of a vibrato, a hint of something like defiance or fear, France can't tell just yet. Italy knows it's always a delicate matter to bring up the past, always, especially in this new century of resentment and long overdue clashes of skin and steel. Prussia hasn't forgiven him now, not ever since Eylau and Austerlitz, probably never will. It's the Lutheran rightful need for revenge, probably, and the Germanic cold, mathematical calculation of rights and wrongs.  
  
"He's got great plans, for Austria and for the rest of them now."  
  
He doesn't add  _like you did_ , even though France can tell the words are burning his lips.  
  
"What kind of plans?" he asks, and by the time the words cross his lips France knows he's made a mistake.  
  
Italy shrugs. It's almost as if the weariness, the infinite weariness of wars he'll never truly get used to, has disappeared for a few brief instants.  
  
"The same kind of plans as anyone ever has when it comes to the Germans, France. You know that."  
  
It's Italy's way to give him the finger for his very much interested help, and France takes the blow gracefully, with a lightness that mirrors Italy's own. He nods, slowly, stretches out his arms with a yawn. There's still a destroyed city under their feet, along with thousands of men dying for an ideal that isn't their own, not really, nations and wars emerging from a terrifying new mechanised century. This is what the modernity France dreamed of in the old days look like, back in the time of kings that hadn't yet been taken down by revolutions and emperors.   
  
There are thousands of dead young men lying under their feet, from the North and the South, the mountains of Savoy and the sunny days of Nice, and maybe, maybe both France and Italy feel that dull ache in their chest that comes with decades going by too fast. There's also that awkward unnamed shame, deep down, that this is far from the end of this, that this is all but a step in the walk towards something more monstrous than anything any of them has ever seen.  
  
"You think they'll write stories out of all of this?" France asks innocently enough, vaguely gesturing at the destroyed landscape. "You know, like in the old days."  
"I don't know. I just wish they'll make something better out of it than advice to future strategists in military manuals."  
  
Italy’s not wrong, in a way, France has to admit, and soon enough the both of them are rising back up, making their way through the rumbles. There are matters to attend to, as always, forever.  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victoire à la Pyrrhus. = Pyrrhic victory.


	6. Vienna

_Vienna, 1867_  
  
It’s an ugly wedding, but that’s only because Austria has this thin shade of hate that seems to stick all over his skin like a disease. He loathes this, loathes Prussia for whatever happened in Sadowa, loathes the turn this century has made his destiny take. The times of the Habsburgs seem over now, dead as Maria-Theresa and the sickly boy that was neither holy, roman nor an empire.  
  
It’s an ugly wedding, because Austria doesn’t care nearly as much about these things as he used to. Austria hates the 19th century almost as much as he hates Prussia, and everyone can see the subtle way his face contorts into a grimace when he thinks no one is looking. The truth is that this union is almost against nature. Even though Austria and Hungary dance with one another, it’s not hard to notice how their hands are strangely tense against one another, and how Hungary’s lavish dress artfully hides what France has heard are the fading scars of Russia’s last visit in 1848 upon Austria special request.  
  
Still, France likes weddings, Austria’s utmost sense of proper hospitality. There’s enough champagne to drown the Czar’s entire army, and enough pretty little things from the Austrian nobility to keep France entertained for the full week of his stay here.  
  
He ends up standing in the sidelines of the ballroom, arms crossed over his chest, mildly amused smile on his face. Spain isn’t there, because Spain never truly is there nowadays, too busy fucking everything up both home and in the Americas. France should blame himself for the mess, in a way, he really should, with a brand new Emperor in Paris and the feeling that something, something isn’t quite right about Europe now.  
  
Spain isn’t there but someone else is.  
  
" _Mais c’est un invité d'honneur que nous avons là!_ "  
  
There's more ugly snickering, and France shakes his head, an expression of indulgent amusement on his face.  
  
Prussia looks like an idiot, but he always look like an idiot. Nothing fits him like a military uniform and a sword, and the elegant civilian clothes he decided to pick for the evening only to spare Austria any further humiliation clash against his grin that still reeks of blood. Sadowa and armies clashing against one another, telling this century that 1848 was over, forever, now.  
  
He just shoulders his way next to France, his teeth sharp as ever, and his eyes observing the newly married couple dance. Something turns cold in his face, but he hides it well enough with the way his lips thin out under his aggressively victorious smile.  
  
"Long time no see.”   
  
Same ugly, crackling voice, same rattling accent upon the soft French words that come out of his mouth. France can’t tell if he’s missed Prussia or if he hasn’t.   
  
“Still, you could use a haircut,  _mon vieux_ ," Prussia observes.  
"You could use a fist to your face. Or a good fuck, maybe."  
  
They both laugh, sipping on expensive champagne, but there's a wall of things left unsaid that's rising up between them. Prussia's pissed about France's emperor, the old one and the new one, a little bit, and France is pissed about whatever it is that Prussia's evasive Prime Minister is doing with the map of Europe. It’s typical of them, because they both like to pretend not to care under self-sufficient grins and the ever-so-superior curl of an eyebrow.   
  
They exchange banalities about the state of Paris’ finest prostitutes and whatever lies they can come up with with court intrigue in Berlin, as usual, with that very peculiar language that mixes elegance and profanity. France enjoys Prussia’s wit, thoroughly, has always done, how it mixes the crass and the varnish of  _nouveau riche_  royalty. One can almost smell the caked dirt of eastern serfdom upon his breath, mixed that very peculiar brand of German pedantic, organised and mathematical knowledge. Poets and thinkers, murderers and soldiers. No wonder why they’ve all fashioned themselves, the lof ot them, to follow Prussia into whatever he’s doing with the Northern states.  
  
“You think Italy will drop by at one point or another?” France asks. “I haven’t seen him, I’m afraid.”  
“You want to apologise for screwing him up?”  
  
Prussia’s question is a rhetorical one. Of course France doesn’t want to apologise.  
  
“It’s called  _political education_. You of all people should know that.”  
  
He can’t know why exactly Prussia seems tense, now, but he knows that whatever is to follow means something. It’s the way his teeth glint, and his tone goes quieter.  
  
"Talking about politics…”  
  
There’s a pat on his back that moves up to his shoulderblades. Prussia's is firm, but it's not aggressive. Not yet, at least. Prussia has one of those elegant, drawn-out movement with his free hand.   
  
“You think this..." There's a head movement towards Austria and Hungary dancing, and France can almost hear the slight excitement in his voice. "... Is going to work?"  
  
France can't blame him for basking in his own glory, although he wishes, he wishes he had been the one to drag Austria down his high and mighty throne to the humiliation of striking a deal with the maid. He knows Prussia wants to be the new engineer of this tricky game of diplomacy, a game both France and Austria have always been better than him at. Prussia wants to rewrite the rules, with the tip of a gun barrel, and this, the lights and the wedding altar, are his first step towards it.  
  
"Austria always makes things work his way,  _c'est son petit secret_. He's a venomous spider, and he'll destroy you if you get too close."  
  
To those words, Prussia's expression of amusement doesn't waver. It pisses France off, because Prussia acts as if France didn’t know, didn’t know whatever stupid little trick Prussia is trying to pull off, and how he’s playing him, as always.  
  
"Is that a warning from an old friend to another?"  
  
It is.  
  
"Only a state of affairs one has to learn with experience."  
  
France takes his glass of wine to his lips, shoulders Prussia’s hand off from him. There’s a short pause, between the two of them. Prussia’s eyes on him are piercing, as they were decades ago, with other armies and other wars, other regimes and other kings. They’re boiling, with silent rage under a shine of practiced litanies of words that never meant anything and detached cynicism. He’s been smiling the whole time, in this dreary new century, and it’s the first time France can see it, the rage from the losses of Austerlitz and Eylau, from foreign soldiers and tricolor flags occupying the streets of Berlin. It’s the first time he sees it, and it scares him.  
  
There must be something that shows up in his face because suddenly Prussia is laughing again, finishing up his wine in one long gulp like the barbarian from the Rhinelands that he is.  
  
“Shame. I would have asked you to join me for a little romp with the groom, but it all seems unlikely, now.”  
  
France rolls his eyes. It’s pointless to give Prussia any importance France knows he doesn’t deserve. Prussia isn’t the worthy adversary England, Spain or Austria have been, years past. He’s going to trip on his own ambitions, as Austria did, as the others did, and as France, even though he hates to think about it nowadays, still has nightmares about.  
  
“All yours,” France shrugs. “ _Je t’en pries._ ”  
“Your loss, I tell you!”  
  
Prussia gives him a look that lingers for a bit too long as he leaves, sharp shoulders and a punch to France’s shoulder that is, as Prussia always is, completely out of place. It makes France watch him go with a frown, and the feeling in his gut that this isn’t over just yet. Still, he’ll work this out, as he’s worked others out and into ruins, over the centuries.  
  
There are still more important things for him to care about than whatever Prussia will try and fail to accomplish in Germany, out there, in Mexico, in Italy and in Algeria, on the dawn of an era that France knows will be French.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mais c’est un invité d'honneur que nous avons là! = But it’s a guest of honour that we have here!  
> mon vieux = old friend  
> c'est son petit secret = it’s his little secret  
> Je t’en pries = You’re welcome


	7. Versailles

_Versailles, 1871_  
  
Prussia looks like an overdressed pheasant, and France wishes he could throw his pride on the ground and hit, hit, hit where it hurts, coward punches and shouts and screams. Still, he doesn't do it, not yet, his hands curled into fists to his sides, and the bone-gnawing fire of shame and hate and ache for revenge. Prussia is beaming because this is his victory, this is the culmination of him winning, over Denmark, over Austria, and over France. They're all there, all here to watch him slather his own glory all over their faces, and there's nothing in the world he'd trade for the look on Saxony's face, or the very notable absence of Austria.  
  
It makes France want to vomit. He knows it's partly because of the chain-smoking and hard liquor hitting he's been doing to treat the bitter taste of defeat that lingers in his mouth, and partly because of the nausea that seems to overwhelm him whenever he thinks about the young boys lying freshly dead in  _Père Lachaise_.  
  
Versailles twinkles like a Christmas tree to which Prussia is the loud, annoying asshole star, and he drinks, he drinks himself silly, or at least stupid enough to have a talk with Bavaria that ends up with the eldest leaving with controlled anger on his face. Bavaria is like Austria, in a way, France can't help but to think, and yet he's not sure if Bavaria will ever truly forgive Prussia the way he knows Austria will, one way or another. France can't know, doesn't want to know, when it comes to whatever happens on the other side of the Rhine. All he wants is Alsace-Lorraine back, and enough German blood to match all the sleeping little soldiers of seventeen littering the road between Paris and Sedan.  
  
He has to leave at one point from the nausea he feels will make himself do something really, really stupid. He needs fresh air, any air, anything that doesn’t makes his lungs burn with wrath, standing out in the gardens as snow falls over the remnants of a kingdom long dead. His collar feels suffocating as he frees himself from it  
  
France shouldn’t be surprised to hear footsteps over the fresh layer of snow.  
  
"Having fun?" Prussia asks, and his breath smells like alcohol and death.   
  
France doesn't even have the energy to snap back. He knows things will turn to shit if he does. He also knows that the only reason why Prussia had him come here is because of his oversized ego. France suspects he wants to try to talk himself into an angry yelling and fucking session tonight, and he might succeed, that's the terrifying thing. Prussia is weird like that, and France can only fantasize about grabbing his neck and choking him into both oblivion and ecstasy for now.  
  
" _Va-t’en._ "  
  
Prussia smirks.  
  
"'Afraid that ain't the Prime Minister's plan concerning war reparations."  
  
_Fuck you, your Prime Minister and your wars._  
  
"You've seen the new kid, right?" Prussia continues as he slides next to France as if they're good old friends.   
  
They’re not. France hates Prussia in a way that makes his whole body tense and his lips seal. It’s been a long time ever since he’s hated anyone so much, with such a powerful, soul-crushing strength. Maybe England, centuries ago, in the dirt and mud, but the memory seems so distant, now, fuzzy as through a stained glass.  
  
Another thing that France hates is Prussia’s newest creation, with sharp blue eyes and nothing that might be holy or roman anymore in his confident stride. Germany is everything France isn’t, fashioned this very way by his older brother, and it seems like the young thing relishes in that very fact as he dances with pretty, dolled up ladies, in a hall full of mirrors and half-dreamed memories of dead royalty.   
  
“Yes.”  
  
There’s a hand that falls upon his shoulder. France wishes he could get himself to shrug it away. He can’t. His jaw clenches, and he waits for the moment, for whatever bad joke this is tuning into, to be over.  
  
“Bavaria already dislikes him,” Prussia says, matter-of-factly. “It’s typical.”  
“What about Austria?”  
  
It’s the wrong thing to say, but France, even defeated, with memories of blood and dirt caked between his lips, has to push on Prussia’s buttons, and see what makes him tick.  
  
“Austria doesn’t care.”  
“Are you sure about that?”  
  
Prussia frowns, very briefly. Obviously France almost hit something there, even though it fades away quickly enough, replaced by a sharp, knowing grin. His hand comes up to caress France’s cheek, and it burns.  
  
“As sure as I’ve crushed you.”  
  
He would have caught Prussia’s knuckles and broken them, hadn’t it been for the two very blue, very intent eyes that he could feel crawl upon him. Prussia is recklessly drunk, but Germany isn’t, as he stands in front of them, seemingly appearing out of nowhere.   
  
Time has this funny way of stopping, sometimes, very briefly, in the middle of a nightmare of the utmost bad taste. France feels anger rising up his throat like bile, the kind of rage he hasn’t felt in decades, ever since the temporary madness of revolution and death and war. Germany is beautiful the way and angel of death would be, and had France been anything but a cynical atheist ever since he’d seen modern warfare in action, he would have believed in the retributory nature of his defeat in Sedan.  
  
It seems as if the past few weeks of defeat and dust and shattered pride made this boy so desperately trying to be a man something else than any of them had anticipated. Germany is something bigger, something stronger and infinitely more dangerous than Prussia ever could be, and it makes France hope that one day he’ll get to destroy him. Germany is everything that France isn’t, that’s what made the old empire crumble upon itself under the fire of war, and Prussia delights both in the realisation and subsequent humiliation that dawns upon France as they exchange glances.  
  
“Prussia,” Germany says, with calm voice.   
  
Prussia only looks at him, and grin.  
  
“Germany,” he replies, his hand still caressing France’s neck.  
  
It’s funny because Germany seems to bow to Prussia’s will without even orders needing to be uttered. He looks at France, with something glinting in his eyes France isn’t sure he wants to fully understand. A sigh comes out of his lips.  
  
“His Majesty wanted you to know that he wishes to speak to you tomorrow morning.”  
“Yes, of course.”  
  
Prussia’s tone isn’t serious, because Prussia is old enough not to really care about most humans the way their kind should. It seems to rub Germany the wrong way, which would make France laugh if he didn’t wish so badly to stab Prussia in the eye at this very moment. Still, Germany’s gaze floats upon the both of them as if not understanding whatever is happening, whatever always happens in situations like these. He doesn’t leave right away, as Prussia’s silent order should push him to; sharp blue irises follow the path, briefly, of Prussia’s fingers on France’s throat.  
  
“Fine. I’ll be seeing you later tonight, then.”  
  
It makes France feel filthier than he should as he watches Germany leave.  
  
Prussia chuckles softly to himself, playing with a gloved hand with a lock of France’s hair as he whispers into his ear.  
  
"This is what complete defeat feels like, old friend. Now, the question is if you've understood now that your reign over this continent has come to an end.”  
  
It’s only at that point that it hits France. Prussia’s tone has all the resentment, all the wrath of decades past, of bloody fights and humiliation, and he’s still mad, has always been, ever since their wars had turned into a little more than the casual feuds of the  _Ancien Régime_. He’s still mad about French troops marching over Potsdam, marching over Frederick’s grave, dragging him all the way to Russia and to its baren, ugly, destroy burnt earth. Waterloo hadn’t been enough. Crushing Austria hadn’t been enough. This was his coronation. This was his complete victory. The German Empire was his final triumph, because it meant he’d dethroned France, at last, where England, Spain and Austria had failed countless times again.  
  
That night Prussia fucks himself on his cock, resentment and hatred making France come even harder as Prussia whispers into his ear between gasps of pleasure about how his new empire, and his most most beloved brother, will take over the world. The grip on his hair forces his head up still as cum drips over his stomach, dragging him up as Prussia kisses his cheek in a mock of affection. The whole things feels slightly off the same way everything feels slightly off ever since Sedan. and France can’t help but to wish the whole world dead.  
  
This is what complete defeat feels like, ego, pride and lust making his whole body tremble as he looks at his own face the next day, desperately splashing water over his face to make his own disgust go away.  
  
It doesn’t work.  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Va-t’en. = Leave.


	8. Paris

_Paris, 1907_  
  
Sedan still feels like a night terror, and it's humiliating in a very intimate way. There had been mud and there had been blood and not much else, and France feels hate, hate, hate, enough to make him feel dizzy. He doesn't care, now, about whatever will happen to the carefully constructed peace of the last century,  _Pax Britannica_  and Otto von Bismarck be damned to hell and back. No empires, nothing aside from the sand and jungle wars of Algeria, Senegal and Indochina, waltz of republics and politics, of false judgements and Jewish spies sent to Guyana.  
  
Empires come and go, under the wheel of time and a plethora of nonsensical names, but it doesn't keep France from trying his best to get the world under his boot. Suez and Fashoda. It's always about England, but it’s not about England anymore. There’s something almost redemptive in the pillaging, in the submission of a new world to his whims once more, the look in Vietnam’s eyes when he places a kiss upon her wrist and tells her not to worry about Siam, about Cambodia and about China anymore. The world has changed, the century is turning, and France can’t help but to feel that them, the lot of them, are standing on the hedge of a precipice.  
  
It's funny to be receiving England here, because it's been a funny century for the both of them, no wars ever since Vienna, none of the fantastic drama of Hastings, Calet, Crécy, Québec, Trafalgar, Waterloo. France isn't sure if England misses it yet, but he knows he does. There is nothing chivalrous, nothing like the almost romantic feud that separated him from the most _perfide Albion_ , in the visceral hate he feels toward Prussia and whatever monster of politics he created on the other side of the Rhine.  
  
It's even funnier to be receiving Russia, because Russia is insane, he's always been, in a way, it's the Mongol blood in his veins, pumping, cursing under his skin. Russia smiles and bows, French rolling on his tongue with practiced ease, devotion and envy mixing into something France isn’t sure he wants to acknowledge properly.  
  
His tone is a sly, dangerous caress as he passes his hand over France's shoulder.  
  
“ _Je suis honoré de pouvoir être reçu ici, cher ami._ ”  
“ _C’est moi qui suis honoré de pouvoir vous recevoir_ ”  
  
He dances, elegantly so, to the most modern music and with the most modern young ladies. Diplomacy has this odd way of sticking to the ancient rules, the ancient codes, even though the ancient ways have crashed upon themselves and died a slow, painful death France can smell all over Austria’s letters than come to Paris once in awhile. They’re all dying too, maybe, as the world shifts under their shoes.  
  
Yet, there's that look to Russia’s eyes, a look France isn't sure he fully understands. It's something that was always there, in a way, except for that tinge of red that France can't remember now, not in the flames of Moscow or the scorching Crimea, nor in all those centuries of awkward accents, soft words and condescending laughs that made him feel like the master of the world. Russia is different now, and France can't help but to be reminded of a wild beast hiding in Man's attire as he watches him. He tries not to think too much of what this actually implies, about Russia, and about himself.  
  
The three of them end up drinking harder liquor Russia somehow managed to smuggle out of god-knows-where on the balcony. It tastes like liquid death, unsurprisingly, but none of them seems to really care. The morning almost there, almost dragging away shadows of earlier battles, earlier wars. England looks tired, his head neatly resting upon Russia’s shoulder, still a bit drunk. It seems like this new century has fallen upon his head like a hammer. It factually did, with whatever mess this child Prussia made into his puppet turned out to be, and with the way the cold, beautiful, powerful little thing behaves in public. There’s a new kind of arrogance in Germany’s ways that makes France knows makes England’s blood boil, and it’s different from Prussia’s, different from whatever used to be there before 1871.  
  
It almost feels like a bad replay of their own beginnings, centuries ago, and the comparison makes France’s stomach twist into a painful knot.  
  
“You know,” Russia says, with the childish voice that doesn’t fit with his large body and refined French clothes. “I’ve always wondered what makes dawn in Paris so beautiful.”  
  
England groans, sounding most definitely drunk, but there’s no witty retort that comes out of his mouth, which prompts Russia to keep talking.  
  
“We don’t have them in St-Petersburg at this time of the year. White nights, we call them, the sun only caressing the horizon briefly in a drawn-out twilight. Very beautiful, but not quite the same, not quite the same as Paris…”  
  
Russia sighs, very much like a darling young lady, and it doesn’t fit him, as most things Russia ever does never seem to fit him. He talks with his his hands, a bit like France sometimes would, decades ago, and it never fails to make him look like he’s playing some sort of rehearsed role.   
  
“ _Il y a ce je-ne-sais-quoi dans l’air de cette ville. C’est merveilleux._ ”  
  
The shine of admiration makes Russia’s eyes sharp, and France shudders. He’s always hated Paris, a little bit. Ugly dirty streets under grey skies, and mean people pressing themselves, running a losing race against time. It almost seems as if they’re not talking about the same place.  
  
“I guess it’s because you don’t get Paris burnt down as often as most Russian cities,” England says, crass as always.  
  
France closes his eyes, sighs. He can’t help the words that come out of his mouth.  
  
“It was Moscow that went down in flame last time, you somber idiot.”  
  
Russia nods, patting France’s shoulder amicably. Something’s changed about him, even though the smile is still there. It’s the beast below, as always, the hint of madness, different madness, that makes Russia not quite the same as the rest of them. He picks his bottle of vodka from England’s fingers, takes a long gulp of it as if it was water. France can only watch him from the corner of his eye, fascinated.  
  
“It used to make me barking mad to think about it,” Russia says slowly. “Now it’s different. I’ve changed, to become just like you, just as great and just as powerful, God, the Czar and the constitution by my side.”  
  
There’s a little chuckle that shakes him, sounding strangely like if he was choking on glass. Still, an ominous feeling seems to perspire through his words, and it takes France a while to realise what it means. It’s irony, and resentment, about something bigger than France, England, Russia and the rest of them. They don’t really dare to name it yet, even though its bitter aftertaste lingers in the back of France’s mouth. This is what the look in Russia’s eyes mean, and this is why it scares France too much. The abyss has gazed back, after a century of blinding revolutions and ideals, and it begs to swallow them whole.  
  
It’s too late to go back, now.  
  
They don’t exchange much words after this. It feels awkward, and so they drink, wondering what is wrong with the world for them to come together in this strange  _Entente_ , what changed ever since their old feuds and their old wars, ever since someone else than France tried to take over this continent.  
  
They know that the answer to all of these questions is Germany.  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Je suis honoré de pouvoir être reçu ici, cher ami. = I am honoured to be here, dear friend.  
> C’est moi qui suis honoré de pouvoir vous recevoir = It’s me who’s honoured to be receiving you.  
> Il y a ce je-ne-sais-quoi dans l’air de cette ville. C’est merveilleux. = There’s something I can’t quite pinpoint in the air of this city. It’s wonderful.


	9. Brest-Litovsk

Brest-Litovsk, 1918

Russia looks like utter shit, Prussia observes, as they share a bottle of vodka that fails to warm them up in this god-forsaken hellhole. He hates the East, hates the sound of Russian that has all the warm tones of things he’d rather forget about now, hates the snow that surrounds them as they sit next the fire that doesn’t even manage to warm Prussia’s drenched boots. That cunning old junker is dead, and so will Russia’s Czar be soon enough, the latter being a good thing, all matters considered. Prussia knows now that this Emperorship business that made him so great back in isn’t exactly to his liking nowadays. The whole turn this little matter in the Balkans has taken makes him wish he’d strangled the sickly little cripple in his sleep before he could do any damage. It’s too late to think about killing infants anymore, and Prussia can only fume about all the lost occasions to change the course of history with one small, elegant little push.

Russia drinks like he wages war, without even seeming to care how it destroys him. There are layers of him that seem to come off, detaching themselves from his skin, as the evening turns into night, and pointless little chitchat turns into confessions. There’s an almost religious aspect to it that makes Prussia frown sometimes. He’s read about spectres haunting Europe, conflict and struggle and revolution bullshit Prussia still can’t get himself to properly care about. He doesn’t care about angry jobless scribblers from Triers talking about their visions of a bright new future like medieval holy fools.

He lights Russia’s cigarette with a bored expression on his face, and the very real impression that he’s missing something, something that seems to light up in Russia’s eyes whenever Prussia hints at whatever is news on the western front.

“It’s a shame that your brother isn’t with us tonight,” Russia giggles through smoke. “C’est de loin lui le plus charmant d’entre vous. It’s because he’s so beautiful, I think. It’s almost a wonder how you two can be related, isn’t it?”

Prussia shrugs. He’d make a joke about how everyone wants to fuck his baby brother if he wasn’t so damn tired of West’s whining and bitching, about how to deal with this war and how Prussia’s bleeding them all dry, has been ever since the start.

“I let him spend to much time in Vienna, that’s why. Austria does that to people; he makes them soft, vain, and stupid.”  
“What a harsh way of talking of your dearest ally...”

Prussia raises an eyebrow.

“Germany’s ally. Not mine.”

That, Russia seems to understand. He smokes as if on a lifeline, snow falling around them. They really should head back to whatever they’re supposed to be doing with those new leaders with new ideas, about war and peace, truth and wrong, freedom and slavery. 

“Still, hasn’t Austria made you soft, too?”

There’s a look that passes upon Russia’s content face, self-satisfaction towards his own wit, and Prussia frowns. He doesn’t answer to that, pushing the vodka bottle to his lips. It tastes like shit.

“What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. My brother will learn from his mistakes in doubting me, once this war is over and I’ll have the troops march all over France’s corpse.”

Russia chuckles at the words. Prussia fantasize, very briefly, about them still being at war so he could punch that stupid face and watch Russia’s oversized nose bleed. It pisses him off, just as pretty much everything about Russia has always made him somewhat uncomfortable. They’re not of the same breed, as that crazy fucking Kaiser would say, and Prussia doesn’t understand Russia the same way England doesn’t understand France, even after years of stabbing one another in the back and scheming to take over the world.

It’s because Prussia’s crazy enough to start a war on two fronts, while Russia’s crazy enough to start a revolution in the middle of winter, maybe, that they’ve managed so far not to destroy one another. Only time, and maybe the manic, nervous little Russian Jew with the glasses and the mustache, will tell.

The night sky floats above them without seeming to care about the carnage down below. Russia looks up, for a brief instant, a pensive look on his face, wonder lighting up his features as if the both of them hadn’t already lived hundreds of lives under the same stars. Russia’s a dreamer, the same way that brat America is, with fantasies too big for their reality, and the tendency to lie to himself in a way that will destroy him sooner or later. Prussia can only thank himself for not raising West that way.

“You know, I’ve always wondered what was up there. Songs of years past talked about gods, and the priests who rewrote them talked about God.”

Russia lets out a tired sigh.

“But now I’m not sure whether gods and priest are real and alive anymore.”

With these words Russia falls silent, and Prussia drinks more, smokes more, hates more. He hates England, and France, and Austria, too, a little bit, for dragging the lot of them into this mess. He hates the cough in the back of his throat that won’t heal, the stories they make up about that Silesian baron with the red plane, the dying, his dying art of war. It hadn’t lasted a few weeks, a few months, ending with celebratory toasts of expensive champagne in the halls of Versailles and the satisfaction of dragging France in the mud once more. It had lasted years, years of shit, and Prussia knows it’s partly his fault, maybe, for thinking he could take over the world in short few decades and throw England off his throne after destroying France’s ambitions.

But that, Russia doesn’t need to hear, and Prussia doesn’t have to say. Snow is falling around them the same way it fell over Moscow when that genius tyrant France had picked as an Emperor had burned himself and his whole army to the annals of history. There are words left to be said about Russia love for self-destruction, and the armies forming within his changing empire.

“What are your plans for now?” Prussia asks, and as soon as the words cross his lips, he knows it was a mistake to ask.

Truth is that Russia doesn’t have plans. He’s a trapped animal the same way they used to be, centuries ago, beloved despots and dearly cherished churches of dead gods and living suffering still standing aven as time has flown by. He tenses, Prussia can see it in the way he lets the cigarette slip his fingers and die on the ground, crushing it with his boot as if to make it disappear. It takes him a little while to answer, too, his eyes upon the fire, upon the snow, upon what Prussia can guess are the memories of the past few years of mud and dirt, or maybe the apprehensions of what has yet to come. 

“I’ll go with the flow, as I’ve always done, Prussia. You can’t escape the future forever, même pas dans nôtre grande et puissante Russie.”

To those words Russia manages a drunken giggle that sounds false and terrifying in hindsight, just as most of what comes out of Russia’s mouth. Prussia doesn’t have the courage or carelessness of pointing it out to him. It’s something they can feel, Prussia believes, changes that have yet to come, in their bones sometimes.

Surviving, killing and changing are the things Russia is about to do. Whatever put them upon the Earth knows what will come out of this.

“Yeah, right,” is the only thing Prussia is able to come up with. “Try not to kill yourself with that vodka tonight. I gotta get a word with that Czech aristocrat Austria sent to us instead of an actual soldier, and hopefully find a few decent prostitutes before tomorrow’s talks.”

To this Russia doesn’t add anything, aside from an empty smile and a little nod. Prussia rises up, hands him the vodka bottle that lies abandoned to his feet, going back to the talks of peace he knows Russia will hate him for, sooner or later. It doesn’t matter because Russia has greater things to take care of at the moment, and he’s not stupid enough to think Prussia to be able to show any kind of mercy for these things. It’s okay. They’ll manage to avoid complete annihilation for now, or at least manage some sort of complete annihilation that will leave the whole world on fire with them. 

Prussia has always wanted to go out with a blast. There’s still France to push down on his knees in the West, England to tame out of Germany’s way, and America to kick away from the dance of European politics the kid decided to trip into. 

The Flanders fields, and their red little poppies among the cadavers of an entire generation, will turn into hellfire under his final wrath.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C’est de loin lui le plus charmant d’entre vous. = He is by far the most charming.  
> même pas dans nôtre grande et puissante Russie = not even in our great and powerful Russia.


	10. Paris

_Paris, 1871_  
  
France has to swallow the bile in the back of his throat when they tell him that he’s got a visitor. He knows who this is. He can feel it in his very bones, in the blood that still roars in defeat inside his veins. It feels out of place to still be here, to still be in Paris, to still feel defeat cursing through his whole body without being able to lift a finger against it. France knows, even now, that this kind of grudge that’s brewing inside of him will consume him, and he’s powerless to stop it.  
  
There are still boys to shoot down as they try to take over Paris with foreign ideas of universal peace and harmony, of breaking down institutions and building new ones in a way that never fails to remind France of another commune, in another century. It all feels like some sort of bad reprise of events France sometimes longs for, sometimes wishes he could extirp out of his mind forever.  
  
Still, he rises from the sofa upon which he’s been lounging on in this very ugly, very  _nouveau riche_  appartment he’s found himself after his old house got destroyed by a simultaneous failed war and failed revolution. The decorations irk him almost as much as the humiliation of having to budget whatever money Prussia deigned to leave him. It’s modernity at its finest, and it makes France sometimes question if the dirty, noisy, ugly  _grands boulevards_  of this new Paris really were the bright future enlightened aristocrats had in mind, a century ago. The wood floor makes his steps sound more decisive than they really are. He goes to greet his guest without the usual carefully practiced smile and wrath carefully hidden under graceful words and the right amount of bowing and laughing.  
  
The truth is that this boy, because Germany really is nothing but a boy, from the way he stands without knowing what to do of this body that grew too strong and too fast, to the awkwardness with which French words are mangled by his peasant mouth. This boy has been France’s downfall. It’s Prussia’s revenge, and it speaks with polite, still somewhat stilted manners resulting from an upbringing that was both needlessly strict and unrefined.  
  
“ _Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici ?_ ”  
  
Germany seems shocked by the question. It’s stupid of him, but there are a lot of things that are stupid about Germany. It’s youth, arrogance, and an incurable reverence for a megalomaniac older brother with a grudge against France. He seems to waver on his feet, for a brief instant, makes himself stand upright once more, and France would laugh if he didn’t know any better.  
  
“I come with a missive from the chancellor.”  
  
France rises an eyebrow, looks over Germany’s extended hand, in which lies the now familiar imperial crest. Eagles. It’s always eagles, when it comes to empires. The old  _Junker_  probably wants to talk about Africa and the Middle East, and France knows he’s nowhere in the mood to deal with this right now. Let England take care of it. This all feels like some sort of bad joke, and France has grown sick and tired of pretending.  
  
He takes it from Germany’s hands, looks the overgrown boy over once more, sighs. Germany is taller than France, and taller than Prussia, or so France guesses, and it’s odd to rise his head to observe him. Germany seems almost to be hiding  
  
“This isn’t the reason why you’re here. It’s Prussia that sent you, isn’t it?”  
  
France is old and France has no patience for inexperience. He’s not in the mood for his usual mindless, charming chatter, or for wearing gloves when it comes to handling diplomacy. There are things Prussia forgot to teach Germany, and France won’t be the one helping him out just yet. There are too many dead young men paving the way between Berlin and Paris, from this war, from other wars, from the tempest of a world turning on its axis.  
  
“No, I… I wanted to talk to you.” Something changes in Germany’s voice. “ _Seul à seul._ ”  
  
Germany looks at him with those sharp blue eyes, and France realises, for the first time, that there’s something more that Prussia’s creation behind the stiff upper lip and tasteless uniforms. It’s not guilt or anything stupid like that, but it’s not the raw hatred France would have expected, the very same that had burned an incandescent flame in Prussia’s eyes without France ever realising it.   
  
“I know that Prussia says a lot of things about me, but I also know that a lot of it is false. It’s… It’s not his fault, really, but I wanted you to know…”  
  
Times seems to stop as France’s mind starts placing the pieces together, the puzzle shaping itself into completion. He’s been stupid. He’s been so, so, so stupid for all these years.  
  
The truth is that Germany is everything France isn’t, and he longs, somehow, somewhere, to truly be. Germany is too young to know that the building of a modern nation state can only be done through a very peculiar type of self-destruction. Germany wants to be whole, and he doesn’t fully know just yet that it means destroying things, stepping over the past and killing the ones he cherishes the most. He hopes France will show him, somehow. He’s mistaken.  
  
France finds himself at loss for words, and Germany takes a step forward, takes France’s hand into his own, and it burns like a thousand pinpricks over his palm but he can’t get himself to push it away.  
  
“I wanted you to know that I didn’t want this to be this way.”  
  
It seems that France’s mixed feelings of disgust and horror peek through his silence. Germany catches it, and there’s some sort hurt that shines through his eyes. France’s hand is still in his own, and he raises it, slowly, to his lips. Skin brushes skin, and Germany’s lips are dry, slightly chapped, against France’s knuckles. It feels wrong in a thousand ways any of his fights with Prussia had never done.  
  
He’d wished for modernity, all those years ago, and now that it stood in front of him with broad shoulders and a gaze didn’t blink as it faced the abyss, France was scared.  
  
“Leave,” he said, with a steely voice. He knew better than to let it waver, even for one fraction of a second.  
  
Incomprehension, maybe, flashed through Germany’s whole features, but France didn’t care.  
  
“ _Je suis désolé, je ne voulais pas…_ ”  
“Please.”  
  
It’s enough for Germany to nod and leave. His booted feet make an equal beat against the hardwood floor. He doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t matter, because France wants nothing more than to watch him fall all over himself the same way this century, with its Waterloo and Berezina, had fallen into pieces all around France.   
  
The door closes. The air is still. France’s legs give up under his weight, all of a sudden, and he’s choking for a precious few seconds, unsure if it’s hate or fear that’s taking his breath away.  
  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici ? = What are you doing here?  
> Seul à seul. = Alone  
> Je suis désolé, je ne voulais pas… = I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…


	11. Versailles

_Versailles, 1918_  
  
There’s a sharp closing sound that follows him as he leaves Prussia alone, with his grief and regrets and rage. France is done with him. The world is done with Prussia and his battles and his wars. This is a new century, and a new world, and France tries not to think too hard about what that implies.  
  
The sun greets him as the victor he is. It’s almost noon. They’ve signed the treaties by now, those funny humans, with large words and hopes for everlasting peace. They all speak so much and know so little. Still. The war is over.  
  
France doesn’t know how exactly Germany feels about the fountain, about the gardens, about the monument to France’s past glory that is Versailles. It’s a beautiful castle, drenched in memories of war, of peace and of revolution. It’s everything Germany isn’t, and France bets that it hurts just to stand here now.  
  
The poor boy, because Germany, even after four years of trenches and shit and blood, is still just a boy, stands in front of the fountain, unaware of France’s gaze upon him. There’s a slight tremor to his shoulders, and France wonders, very briefly, if he’s crying. He doesn’t ask.  
  
The afternoon sun makes the gardens look beautiful. It’s the start of the summer than makes them like that, so different from the snows of Januaries past, in another life, in another time. They haven’t been taken care of with as much attention and dedication as they should have; there’s no money for that at the moment, no money to repair the cathedral in Rheims and whatever’s left of the destroyed countryside of Belgium. There’s no rising from the ashes anymore from France, he can feel it in his guts, whenever America rises to speak about a united, peaceful world with that willful innocence of a young man who hasn’t been dragged in a storm of fire and blood early enough to truly understand how this continent works.  
  
The water of the fountain splashes around, and France takes a few careful steps towards it, and towards Germany’s large frame. It’s a stupid move, because Germany isn’t old, predictable and vicious like Prussia is, he’s young and his eyes are full of lights still. That’s what makes him infinitely more dangerous than his brother, but France doesn’t know it yet.  
  
“I know that fountain,” Germany says softly, and he doesn’t turn around. “There’s a copy of it in Herrenchiemsee. Bavaria showed it to me. It’s beautiful.”  
  
France doesn’t find anything to say to that. Germany chuckles to himself, or at least France thinks he does. There’s a very thin line that separates laughter and sobbing, one France hasn’t been able to clearly define yet, even after all these years.  
  
“The king who built it was a fool, but a magical fool,” Germany continued. “He ruined Bavaria, and Bavaria has a hard time still now forgiving him, but I admit I liked him, a little bit. He refused to come and see the real Versailles himself when invited to, back in the days. I wonder what he would think of this now.”  
  
France takes a step forward, and he’s close enough to get a whiff of Germany’s smell. It’s an odd mix of soap and fresh earth, unlike Prussia’s fancy for expensive Italian perfumes. There’s, as always, a hint of blood in the air. They all reek of it, now, or so it seems.  
  
“It’s over,  _Ludwig_.”  
  
The name makes Germany shiver, and France relishes in the feeling of power it gives him. He puts his hand over Germany’s shoulder, and Germany doesn’t shrug it off, surprisingly enough. He puts his own palm over France’s, and the light press of his fingers feels alien. Germany isn’t Prussia and he doesn’t scream and bite and hates, fomenting cold vengeances and swift kills in the dark for decades. Germany still believes and hopes, dreams of long lost kingdoms and castles of crystal, and this is exactly what makes him infinitely more dangerous than any of his brothers could ever be.  
  
He turns around, and their eyes meet.  
  
It’s an odd thing to remember his own dreams and defeats, now, a past that feels distant in this cold century. It flashes before his eyes, the first babbles of a revolution under the form of young men standing up against a king, so far away from the old men hat bowed to one and made modern Germany a reality. There’s ambition and blood, victories and defeat, and the ever present arrogance of refound youth.  
  
It all seems to die in Germany’s sharp blue eyes, so unlike Prussia’s dark red irises and fire that never failed to make France’s blood boil and his hands itch for a fight. France knows, now, that this is far from the beginning, that something even greater, even more dangerous than Russia’s dreams of terror and the wars now relegated to history, something is brewing within this large body and face of lost innocence.  
  
It’s been an odd century, and a long one, too, ever since France’s rebellion that started in that very same castle, ever since the birth of a ideas that would change their kind in a way that hadn’t been seen ever since Rome’s fall. It’s been a odd century of war and death and birth and hope. Germany is a child of that century, and him and France have nothing to say to each other anymore.  
  
They don’t speak. Germany leaves. His steps make a crunching, funny noise as he heads towards the gates. France watches him go, doesn’t follow him. There’s no use in trying to postpone the future, the sick feeling in his stomach, the shattered dreams. Under the afternoon sun, the fountain and its splashing water seems to sparkle. It still sings.  
  
France, as he looks down to his own hands, can only hope that this defeat is what will keep him in line and save him from another utter destruction. There is no remedy to the monsters he knows he’s helped create.  
  
*


	12. Epilogue - Catalonia

_Catalonia, 1938_  
  
France shouldn’t hate this place as much as he does. He used to like coming to Spain, the warm sunlight, the smiles and the soft words he’d only ever half-understand. Well, he doesn’t actively hate it, since France has stopped actively hating anything, caring about the dances they go through, somewhere around the last decade or so. It’s the weight of time running over old men like him and Spain, maybe, and breaking upon the waves of modernity.  
  
It’s sunny in Catalonia, even as the bombs fall and the young men die. It’s funny, how a few little years can change worlds like theirs so quickly. Spain’s losing the generation he failed to sacrifice to the war, back in 1914, in a more intimate way, in a more humiliating way than the trenches were. France would have felt self-righteous about that state of affairs back in Versailles, but he doesn’t anymore, not when he’s seen Americans drunk on their own lives buying up the streets of Paris and Europe turning into a mess different from what it used to be.  
  
France shouldn’t be here, in Spain, and he shouldn’t be smoking cheap Soviet cigarettes on an empty stomach, sharing his battered pack with two old enemies who’ve grown too weak for proper fights somewhere around the turn of the century.  
  
“You think he’ll be back soon?” Prussia asks, as he flicks through photographs France hasn’t managed to get a proper look at just yet.   
  
He asked what they were, only to receive an odd kind of look, and a shrug.   
  
“No idea, but I hope it’ll be with enough  _cojones_  to shoot a bullet through your head.”  
  
Prussia rolls his eyes. France knows he isn't there on his own terms, not really, but it doesn't make him any tender. For once, he's not the one who's stabbing their best enemy in the back.  
  
France and Prussia purposefully avoid each other's gaze, in the small half-destroyed abandoned house they've found for the night. They wait. Spain doesn't come back until nightfall, and when he does, there still isn't anything to eat. It makes Prussia pissy to be hungry and France bitchy to be left with two shitty Russian cigarettes in his pockets. To their faces, Spain only laughs as he settles next to the fire they've lit in the meantime.  
  
“ _Viva la Quinta Brigada! Rumbala rumbala rumbala…_ ”  
  
France almost groans at the theatricality of it all. Of course Spain, of all people, is the one who’ll always find a guitar in the midst of battle, even when they’ve been starving in this shithole for weeks. His eyes meet Prussia’s, and they exchange that knowing look that’s been reserved to the past for decades now.  
  
Prussia doesn’t want to be here. Prussia thinks that Germany’s new ideas are bullshit. But Prussia obeys orders, even if they come from a boy that grew too big and too strong to understand the making of the modern world.  
  
The truth is that Spain is tearing himself apart, the same way the whole world tore itself apart twenty years ago, and that Spain is tearing himself apart the same way the world soon will. England and France can hope, but there’s no stopping a brother that grew out of Prussia’s control. There’s no stopping whatever had brewed in Russia anymore either, with the wide-eyed optimism that seemed to match America’s own, when they talked about leagues and nations and peace, back in the days.  
  
Still, Spain’s song resonates into the night. There’s no turning back now.  
  
*


End file.
